


Prelude - Mycroft

by surrenderdammit



Category: Hannibal (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Background Character Death, But all that is just like mentioned in passing sort-of, Death in car crash, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, IDK wtf I wrote, Jealous Mycroft, Kid Mycroft, Lalala Hannibal season 1 AU land, Mycroft-centric, POV Mycroft Holmes, Past Infidelity, Postpartum Depression, REMEMBER HANNIBAL IS A CANNIBAL, Time Skips, Unplanned Pregnancy, mentions of:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 11:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1856050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surrenderdammit/pseuds/surrenderdammit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In London, England, Mycroft Holmes loses his parents to a car crash at 11 years of age. With the belief he has no surviving family to take him in, he is surprised by the existence of his father's estranged little sister: Wilhelmina Graham. </p><p>He moves across the pond, and starts to rebuild his life. Meeting his aunt's unofficial therapist - and lover, he notes - throws a wrench in his plans. Mycroft has always seen and observed more than those around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prelude - Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what I wrote. Um. It's sort of a long drabble? I don't do plots that well, but the need for this crossover was BURNING. 
> 
> I'm just gonna go ahead and say that although this can obviously be continued, the chances of this happening right now are small. The story could use some more work as it is, but meh. 
> 
> No beta, and English isn't my first language, so please excuse any grammatical errors/typos :) Thanks, and enjoy!

**oOo**

**Introduction**

**oOo**

Mycroft Holmes is eleven years, one month and three days when his parents die in a car crash with him in the backseat. There have been no signs of him growing out of his eidetic memory, but for the first time he can remember, there are gaps. He is unable to fill them, between the loud sound of horns, the pain of the seatbelt digging into his body, and a terrifying emptiness, which only gives way to the chaos of sound and light and pain. He doesn’t fully come to until he’s in the hospital, his parents’ times of death clocked at 20.05 exactly 13 hours and three minutes before he opened his eyes. These are all details he will diligently collect later, much later, when the shockwave of overwhelming emotions he cannot properly sort out has waged its war upon him.

He has no family in England, of course. Mummy was a lone child, her parents long lost to old age, and Daddy came from across the pond with his own mother at the age of eight. Mycroft knew this, but had never felt the ache of loss when it becomes apparent there is _no one_. He has been so content with just Mummy and Daddy, all to himself. No idiotic cousins, doting aunts or uncles, and not even the pesky inconvenience of a younger sibling constantly whining for attention. It has been a relief up until he was faced with the reality of the old and worn woman gently explaining his situation as if he’s one of the half-wits from his school.

“We’ll be looking for your closest family,” she said, at which point he tuned her out. There would be nothing to find, he’d thought bitterly. The burn of desperation and bitter, frustrated grief in the back of his throat – in his eyes and stomach and head – is familiar by now.

Understandably, it takes him by surprise when he is introduced to the woman who “will take care of you, Mycroft”. It’s his Daddy’s little sister, they tell him. American, he concludes before they can inform him. He will later blame grief and desperation for the eagerness with which he agrees to meet her. It’s a silly need to cling onto anything at all which would keep his parents with him for a little longer still.

When she comes for him, he is ready to drink in all the information he always sees and observes endlessly from everything around him. The only difference here is that he gladly hoards the knowledge that the woman – his Auntie, her name unimportant for now because she is his _Daddy’s sister_ – wasted no time in getting here, by the bruises underneath her blood-shot eyes. There is a coffee stain on her flannel shirt: it’s a soft, comfortable shirt, coupled with careworn jeans and worker’s boots. She is warm and comfortable, smells of dogs and rain and countryside underneath the staleness of an aeroplane. Even the mess of her brown curls shakes something loose in him as he buries his face and hands in them; clinging to a stranger he is forcing his mind to learn everything about. He’s desperate to see Daddy somewhere in her, to see Mummy even if that is the height of illogic. He wants to scream and demand it isn’t fair, wants to stomp his feet and have tantrums and cry until someone _gives them back, give them back, I want Mummy I want Daddy **where are they**._

Auntie – warm and _there_ and real – speaks with a voice that sounds nothing like the grating noise of the nurses, the people in suits with ugly words and ugly faces. He feels strangely like he’s floating, temporary suspended (he remembers learning to lie on his back in warm waters one summer, the world muted and the skies a clear blue, the sun pinking his skin).  

“Hello,” she says, hands gentle on the back of his head, along his spine. She’s hesitant, unused to contact, but sincere and calm to his distorted existence. When he peeks into her eyes he staggers, losing his strength and letting her support him fully. He feels safe: he feels seen, he feels _known_. It’s a terrible relief. “My name is Wilhelmina Graham, but you can call me Mina. Or...or, well, whatever you like. What should I call you?”

He blinks, buries his head in her shoulder, because he’s heard everything from Mr. Holmes to little Mycroft to Mike but never this. “Mycroft’s fine,” he mumbles, cheeks heating and fingers twitching in their grip of her shirt. He’s embarrassed, and confused. For the first time since he woke up in the foul place he can _breathe_.

“Mycroft it is,” Mina says. He wonders if she’ll mind if he calls her Auntie, too. She lets him stand in her embrace for an unknown amount of time, silence surrounding them but for their breaths. After a while, she shifts them, until she’s seated on the floor with him cradled in her lap. He doesn’t notice falling asleep.

**oOo**

**Distraction**

**oOo**

“After I was born, my mum left my dad with my brother – your dad. I didn’t know of him until he sent me a letter when I was eight. My dad would’ve burned it, but I found it first,” Mina tells him, a wry smile on her face. The hotel bed he’s in is uncomfortable (because it isn’t _his_ ) and he’s too old for bedtime stories, but he wants to know so many things, so he politely demands it of her. “I could read well enough by then to understand it was addressed to me. Your dad was sixteen by then, and he’d managed to look us up. We kept in touch by writing for a while, but we...we lost contact, for a while. He wrote me when you were born, but I was in a bad place at the time. I felt I had no business in your lives at that point.”

“Why did Daddy’s mummy not take you too? Didn’t she want you?” he wonders, observing the twitch of lips and huff of laughter he startles out of her.

“No, no she didn’t,” she replies, honest and straightforward as so few are. It’s refreshing to not be coddled, to have his self acknowledged. “Our mum was seeing someone else. Someone who was our biological – our real – father. Dad found out when she got pregnant with me. He never told me exactly what happened, but she left with my brother shortly after I was born.”

Mycroft frowns. “Well, why didn’t she want you then?”

“I...,” she starts, looking away for a bit, her eyes flickering around the room. “I think it was a combination of what is called postpartum depression, the discovery of her infidelity, and whatever happened between her, dad and the other man.”

“What’s postpartum depression?” he almost snaps, irritated that he doesn’t know. Auntie merely looks amused, as if she knows, and he’s torn between being pleased and lashing out in frustration.

“It’s a condition that can happen to mothers and sometimes father after childbirth,” she explains, the cadence of her speech steady and so easy to listen to. She’s had an answer to e _verything_ , and he’s awed and annoyed and intrigued by it. “It means you get depressed, and sad and irritable, after having your child.”

“Who was the other man then?” he asks, impatient as he dismisses his other line of inquiry. He doesn’t want to talk about mothers leaving their children behind. Mina shrugs, unconcerned.

“I don’t actually know. I just have a last name,” she says. He can’t detect any regret there, though he wonders how she could stand to not _know_. Knowledge is _everything_. Before he can ask, she leans down to kiss his forehead and tuck him in, a habit which formed after their first night here. “We have an early flight tomorrow. Get some sleep, and if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

He almost protests, but settles. The flight from Gatwick to Baltimore is a long, tedious one, on which he will need to find ways to entertain himself. Learning as much as he can about his new life and the one person in it will be good enough. He has so many questions, after all, and Auntie has had so many answers already. The distraction from the reality of his circumstances is welcome.

**oOo**

**Endure**

**oOo**

Auntie Mina works for the FBI, he learns. She’s a teacher, and a consultant. She’s brilliantly smart, but so different from what he’s known. He doesn’t recognize himself in her, can’t quite comprehend what makes her different. She tells him she’s got an empathy disorder, says she can put herself in people shoes. He is fascinated. When he isn’t staring blankly at nothing, fighting the hollow feeling inside, that is. When he isn’t lashing out with words and accusations and observations. When he isn’t hiding in the woods, or surrounding himself with the pack of dogs his Auntie collects. When he isn’t losing himself in books, trembling under the covers of the bed he’s been given in the room that was unused up until his arrival. He fights to cut it out of himself, this pain, but he’s helpless against the dark that creeps in on him.

Sometimes, he tip-toes down the hall and crawls into Mina’s bed. She never seems to sleep, as shaken and pale as himself. He never asks, guiltily and shamefully grateful for not being alone in his suffering.

**oOo**

**Intruder**

**oOo**

He meets his Auntie’s unofficial psychiatrist two weeks after his relocation to the USA. He wrinkles his nose at the idea of therapy, wondering why Auntie would need it. There is nothing wrong with either of them; they’re just more brilliant than those around them (Mummy always said so, he recalls). Goldfish, he calls them, a small warm feeling in his chest when Mina laughs and ruffles his hair in response.

Doctor Hannibal Lecter, he has been told, is Auntie’s friend too. Mycroft scoffs at the concept, something dark and petulant in him wondering what this man has done to deserve his Auntie’s attention. He can’t be worthy, he can’t belong with them. He resents the man long before he meets him.

Perhaps that’s why he looks so hard, always. Why he’s so eager to find fault with this unknown man. He wants him to be _wrong_ , and feels such a delighted triumph when he finds that there _is_. It takes him 10 months, but he sees and he observes and he is _right_. It doesn’t occur to him to wish he wasn’t.

**oOo**

**Recalculation**

**oOo**

 “Hello, young man,” Doctor Lecter greets him, a cool smile on an aged face. His eyes are dark, with none of the warmth Mycroft has observed in Mina’s. Though unlike his Auntie’s, the man’s stare is razor sharp and focused, taking everything in without flickering about the place in a frantic attempt to keep information _out_. He feels a stab of unease at how familiar it feels.

“Good evening, Doctor Lecter,” he returns the greetings politely, despite it all. Auntie is watching, obviously worried over the introductions. The man means something to her: that he and Mycroft will get along seems important to her. Mycroft has learned to smile when he isn’t happy, to shake hands he’d rather bite, and not speak all his words out loud. He feels no desire to disrupt the tentative balance that has been struck in his new household.

The Doctor seems pleased, though Mycroft isn’t apt enough to read emotions well enough to be sure. Facts he can gather and connect, but the trite sentiments of people are difficult for him to grasp. What he sees are the strict devotion to detail in the man’s expensive clothing, the way everything is presented. The lithe way he’s build – a hunter rather than fighter – and the calculated way he moves gives him a dangerous air, tells Mycroft of endless discipline and control and strength.

The Doctor is intelligent, cooks all his food himself – was most likely a surgeon or musician at some point – and drinks at least one glass of wine a day (preference for red). Mycroft observes he has a dislike for dogs, but a fascination with his Auntie (body titling her way whenever she catches his attention, sometimes when she isn’t aware of attracting it as well). His accent is European, though from where he can’t say.

The Doctor prepared for this meeting, brought a dinner as a peace offering. Little to no wear on his clothes and shoes, though a wrinkle on his cuff indicates someone – more likely than himself inflicting it – tugged at it recently. The barest hint of a red mark is visible beneath the collar of his shirt, and his pupils dilate when Auntie invites them to sit down, and her fingers brushes his own, when she passes him to settle down beside Mycroft in an unconscious act of support.      

“You’re romantically involved,” he declares, unwilling to keep it to himself. He resents the fact Mina hasn’t told him, but thinks she was probably planning to after assessing the outcome of this first meeting.

“Yes,” Doctor Lecter confirms, looking over to Auntie where she’s snorting and shaking her head in amusement, her cheeks a light pink. Embarrassed, but unsurprised Mycroft figured it out. He relishes the faith in his abilities. He doesn’t relish the way the Doctor’s looking at Mina, irritated that there is an issue of the Doctor’s preceding claim on Auntie. “I see you are as intelligent as Mina has been telling me. She has spoken much and well of you, Mr. Holmes.”

He doesn’t correct him on his name, preferring the distance of last names. “Indeed,” is all he says, risking a glance at Mina to see her looking a amused but slightly uncomfortable. Neither of them are fond of social interactions, though Doctor Lecter seems not to mind the uneasy atmosphere.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you,” Doctor Lecter announces. “Mina is very important to me, and you are important to her. I will look forward to getting to know you.”

“Likewise,” Mycroft smiles, feeling ill at ease. Mina runs a comforting hand down his arm in response, absently shifting closer.

“I told Hannibal of your interest in cognitive psychology after our discussion last week,” she says, smiling impishly as they both recalled the enthusiasm Mycroft had lost himself in as they spoke of memory and perception and problem solving. There is little use in abusing labels, yet he believes he can only benefit from understanding himself and what he is capable of. It’s refreshing to able to do so without being diagnosed and dismissed. “As he’s the actual psychiatrist, he’s agreed to help should you have any questions. Since I’m going back to work soon, and you’re about to be enrolled in school, I thought you’d appreciate pursue some things on your own. Hannibal’s got an impressive collection of fascinating literature.”

Mycroft refrains from wrinkling his nose in response to this, a bit put off by the idea of spending any time alone with his Auntie’s _lover_. He can’t deny the appeal of being allowed to study his own interests, as school has always been a dreadfully dull and tedious ordeal. He doubts the American school system will be an improvement, though he is glad to be away from the uniformity and restrictions of dorm rooms and dreary uniforms.

“Thank you,” he offers politely, if stiffly, and resist the ridiculous urge to fidget.

“Um, well then,” Mina coughs, looking a bit helpless. “Eerr...would you like to stay for dinner, Hannibal?”

Doctor Lecter inclines his head, lips twitching in a small smile. “I would be delighted. I must admit I was anticipating to, and was optimistic enough to bring enough food for three. May I cook for you and your nephew, dear Mina?”

Auntie flushes slightly at this, but appears to be used to the steady assumption the Doctor is making. “Oh, you didn’t have to, but thanks. I’ve been looking forward to introduce Mycroft to your cuisine.” She turns to Mycroft then, addressing him. “It’s simply amazing, let me tell you. I feel dreadful having imposed my own excuse for food on you; you’ll see what I mean once you’ve had a taste of Hannibal’s.”

As everything has tasted of ash since his first meal without his parents, Mycroft couldn’t care less one way or another. He shrugged. “I’m sure. I look forward to it then, Doctor Lecter.”

Mina seems pleased, standing along with the Doctor and offering to help. They both leave to fetch whatever he brought in his car, leaving Mycroft to set the table and feed the dogs. He doesn’t appreciate the disruption of their routine, finally having time alone to properly accommodate the new information of his Auntie’s relationship. Romantically involved for a while, friends for longer. Now with a child, he forces himself to add, though he doesn’t view himself as such. Competing for attention and affection would be pedestrian and tedious, but he can’t help the flare of indignant jealously. He’s lost his parents, and only just gained his Auntie. There shouldn’t be anyone intruding on what he has but begun to rebuild. The solution is easy.

He’ll just need to become more important in Mina’s life than Hannibal Lecter.

**oOo**

**Consequences**

**oOo**

He will later lock himself in his room and be grateful he had not come to his realization, hadn’t uncovered the first few clues and evidence, when in presence of that man. Too shrewd and perceptive eyes would’ve noticed the moment of realization all too quickly, and Mycroft might not have taken his next breath. As it was, he’d been bored. He could find patterns everywhere, and he’d recently endured all of two dinner parties with Mina’s Doctor Lecter. The murders he wasn’t supposed to know about, the details of what organs were missing, what organs were served. The dark shadows in red eyes, the puns. Oh, the _puns_. Lowest form of humour. Dreadful.

He doesn’t throw up. He feels vindicated. He is afraid, but not of him, or the what-ifs. He’s scared of the similarities he has observed, he is terrified of the wide-eyed look in Auntie’s eyes and the screams at night. The puking in the mornings. The defeated slump of shoulders, the taste of regret on his tongue.

For all intents and purposes, Mina had loved Hannibal Lecter. They had been happy, Mycroft supposes. He’d learned a lot, his mind never stagnating from the well of knowledge from both adults. The lesson he learns now is to always consider the consequences. He wonders, in the wake of the devastation he uncovered, if letting the beast lie would’ve been – if not the _right_ , then the preferable – course of action. No matter, it is too late by the time Doctor Lecter is taken into custody.

Auntie changes her last name to match Mycroft’s, though she keeps hers as a middle name. She gives birth to William Sherlock Scott Holmes five months after the trial and conviction of the father. Mycroft regards the arrival of his young cousin with a mixture of trepidation and fascination, choosing to focus on these rather than Auntie’s haunted eyes. In what he thinks is a last ditch move to leave it all behind, Mina moves them to England. It’s a relief to be back, though Mycroft resents the fact that he is forced to rebuild his existence once again. In moments, he misses the reality he shattered. But what is done is done, he reasons, and picks everything back up.

They’ll be fine.     

**oOo**

**Author's Note:**

> Hahahahaha...haha..hah. Cue Red Dragon AU.
> 
> Anyway, yeah, I couldn't resist making Sherlock the unplanned love baby of Hannibal and Will. Sorry not sorry. THE CHEEKBONES. THE CURLS. Ok I'll just...go over here now...
> 
> *hides in corner*


End file.
